


Holes in the Silver Lining

by deervsheadlights



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Chance Meetings, Character Study, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Oral Sex, Self-cest, Time Travel, Tony Angst, crack but make it emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Tony worked out time travel in a weekend.It's only fitting that the part he ends up getting wrong is setting his damn time GPS to the right date.Or: Endgame!Tony stumbles into his 2012 counterpart's bedroom one month after the Battle of New York. What he finds is more than a distant memory.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Holes in the Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

> aka "i'm just writing a 500 word drabble" and other lies i tell myself on the regular.
> 
> i've inhaled all available tonycest fic in the observable universe a few years ago, so i'm actually surprised this hasn't happened sooner.
> 
> all mistakes are mine. enjoy!

Tony worked out time travel in a weekend. 

It's only fitting that the part he should get wrong is setting his damn time GPS to the right date. 

His younger counterpart stares and Tony stares back for a while, because this certainly isn't the chitauri-infested New York he's expected to land in. This is a man with bloodshot eyes, a tremble in the hand that reaches for a bottle on the nightstand and the haunted look of someone who's just remembered that the evening prior has seen the end to a relationship that at times was the sole thing keeping him afloat. 

A voice he hasn't heard for the better part of seven years (and even longer in this very context) starts rattling off a list of parameters, probabilities and commonalities, and it might be this that prevents him from punching the right numbers into the device on his wrist straight away like he should. 

It might be JARVIS, might be the ache for something that was and is gone, or it might be _him._

Any version of Tony Stark would be mighty pissed if a time-traveling copy of himself were to crash in his bedroom and disappear without so much as an apology for waking him from drunken slumber. 

That isn't why he stays of course. He stays because he keeps thinking–there's a thousand and one things he could say, longs to say, but knows he shouldn't. Time travel is in its infancy and Tony has no interest in dooming this world with good intentions gone bad because he can't keep his mouth shut. 

And yet. 

He wants to say: _There's something you should know about Mom and Howard._

He wants to say: _Bullshitting your way through the nightmares isn't worth it._

He wants to say: _Don't let them go. Whatever happens, you need to be together._

But while he excels at self-denial most days, if there's one thing spending 53 years with himself has taught him, it's that Tony Stark doesn't listen when he doesn't like what he's being told _._

(He's gotten better at it, has worry lines and new scars as proof of the lessons learned, but this one? Tony could lay out his entire life's story for him and he'd still think he knows better.)

And so what comes out of his mouth after a long, stunned silence is, 

"You come here often?" 

The other him scoffs, a sharp sound that carries more tension than amusement, and swings his feet over the bed to stand. He only sways for a moment but he does, and Tony doesn't bother to pretend he hasn't seen. It's refreshing, when you spend most of your life pretending, to for once make the conscious decision not to. 

Being true has a similar effect on him as booze does, meaning he finds himself not wanting to do without it once he's had a taste. 

He follows his younger self up to the penthouse, the destination clear from the first step onward. Tony's counterpart is almost affronted when he declines the scotch the man's poured for him without being asked. "Suit yourself," he shrugs and acts as though he isn't happy he gets to prevent Tony's share from going to waste. 

Tony turns his back to him, walks up to the glass panels and looks his fill. If he hasn't missed the tower, he has most certainly missed the view and all that ties into it. The lights, the noise, the life–all of it integral to New York City that is oblivious to what lies in its future. Which is to say that what lies ahead is none of this, because the lights have dimmed, the noise is a distant echo and the life gone. (Half in body, the other half in spirit.) 

And the only hope lies in them, the Avengers, some beaten, so-called heroes trying to prove that that moniker of theirs is anything more than a gimmicky marketing strategy. 

In his peripheral vision appears _Tony_ , and the man allows the silence to lay itself over them for all of five seconds before he turns to him arms crossed, eyes him up and down and then says, "What's that, sixty?" 

A startled, disbelieving huff of a laugh makes it past his lips. "Fuck yourself." 

Tony picks up on his choice of words a little too late.

If one were to ask him later, he wouldn't be so sure whether it was purely accidental. If one were to ask him now, he'd say it would've probably happened one way or the other. (And yet it is him who's reached out first, accidental or not, match and gasoline in hand, waiting to set fire to the both of them.) 

"That a threat or a promise?" 

_Being true._ Tony hasn't made friends with the concept until now, preferring to wrap himself in armor than trust the world with his heart, but he has to admit there's an addictive quality to being open and honest with yourself and the people around you.

Maybe that's why it doesn't stop there, why when Tony shoves him against the window, this too-familiar face only stares at him, pupils blown and mouth agape. He's flushed from the alcohol and _something else,_ the cold sweat from a nightmare still clinging to him, his expression open and wanting because they both know.

There's no leers or barbs traded, only a quiet moment shared as they share the warm air between them. A few inches is everything it takes, Tony thinks, eyes dropping to lips. 

The spell breaks. 

They're all teeth and spit, broken syllables and unfinished quips between gasps and moans, because they shouldn't need words but the fact of the matter is that they're trained to perform this one trick like two dogs and unlearning a habit that's part of who you are isn't something that can be accomplished in one night. 

The hand fisted in his hair is tugging him closer at first and then away again, after they've traded matching DNA samples and ephemeral affections for a prolonged amount of time. Tony backs off far enough to allow them a breather. They're both gasping for it, chests heaving against each other with every breath. He would dive right back in were it not for the glaze of emotions dulling the other man's eyes that reminds him once again which one of his memories corresponds with the scene he's intruded on today.

"So, no Pepper?" 

His voice is flat on the surface but soaked in grief underneath, and Tony would be offended by the glint in his eyes that accuses him of infidelity if it didn't also communicate a whole other sentiment: he hopes. Hope, hope, hope Tony always does, but it's the worst that he expects and that comes true, a self-fulfilling prophecy.

(Tony's forever doomed to be the bringer of bad news, a herald of death even now that he so desperately works to prevent the things he's presaging. What happened to Kassandra of Troy in the end, anyway?) 

"No," Tony says, "no Pepper."

And because he predicted this exact answer, his counterpart only clenches his jaw and nods. He won't accept defeat just because he's been shown this is how it's going to be (the vision that birthed Ultron comes to mind). Maybe not tomorrow but maybe next week, this Tony Stark will ram his heels into the earth and thrash against the path the universe has laid out for him, because he has _seen_ now. 

What betrays it Tony doesn't know, but this carbon copy of him sees him for what he is, sees that this is the last stop and has already decided that he doesn't want to be what's looking back at him. 

For this man, Tony must be little more than a living and breathing anthology of failures, mistakes and new-old insecurities reflected in lines carved into skin, in the gray at his temples and the shadows of yearning (for love, for connection, for a simple respite from the loneliness) in his eyes.

He finds he's too tired to hide, has gotten tired of it somewhere in-between his latest cosmic near death experience and the 23rd empty-casket funeral he attended,and so he doesn't. Not that he'd be able to even if he tried–the thing about looking into your own face is that you know how every emotion looks, no matter how expertly hidden it may appear to others. 

This Tony Stark sees him and is seen in return, hurt and longing as he is, as Tony _remembers_ being even now that it's been so long since his time with Pepper. There's nothing of significance here, nothing but a desperate want to find solace in another person that just so happens to be a different version of themselves, nothing that will last past this one instance in time.

They've always looked for affection in the wrong places, Tony thinks. 

The unwanted memories take a backseat, become white noise the moment his counterpart drops to his knees, and Tony wishes it were simple narcissism but he feels there's more to the lust taking him at the sight of himself. As far as out-of-body experiences go, this is a supremely strange one.

His gaze is heavy-lidded but unwavering as he goes through the familiar motions, zipping open his pants and taking Tony in hand without once averting his eyes. His hand is calloused as Tony's own and his lips as swollen and ruddy as the cock they're lickinb pre-come off of. Tony's knees threaten to give out when he swallows him all at once. He just so manages to support himself against the glass panels in front of him, towering further over his younger self. 

Tony can't say it's something he would have thought to put on his bucket list if he had one, but it is something special to fuck his own throat and see what he looks like when the seams come apart, when everything is raw need and not the shred of a thought wasted on hiding away. 

He sees what the appeal is, why people always liked him on his knees: it's the way he gives himself over and makes their pleasure his own. There's saliva, messy and all over, glistening on skin and caught in his beard. He licks and moans and swallows around Tony and his eyes roll into the back of his head when Tony presses forward until he's pressed up into the coarse hair by his pubic bone. 

They're the same yet not. It's the future that haunts him where Tony has already gotten a taste of it, doesn't need his mind to conjure up new dreamscapes anymore. He still has thorns where Tony has grown ivy, less hostile but keeping people out nonetheless. He's chasing oblivion at the bottom of a bottle while Tony has come to understand that temporary comforts are none at all. 

One hand is jerking his own cock, fast and on the brink of too rough that they prefer. Tony watches him buck into it with a keening whimper, hears it get choked out by Tony's length when he forces himself back down the man's throat. His other hand, which Tony didn't take into account existed, massages his balls and then presses into his perineum with probing, skilled, knowing fingers.

They've pulled out all the stops. The peaking pleasure is sudden and everywhere, sears Tony's every nerve ending, washes over him hot and cold as he shudders through his climax. 

Light-headed and slow with the haze that follows a good orgasm, Tony blinks himself back into reality. He opens his eyes to flashes of white: one of it his counterpart's smile, broad and satisfied, the other the man's own spend coating the ratty band shirt that has seen better days but will still be in Tony's wardrobe eleven years from now. 

"Not bad," the too-familiar man at his feet says, using the window for support as he rises, knees loudly protesting the prolonged, unfavorable position. "For someone your age."

Tony watches him saunter back over to the bar in silence and follows slowly, not yet trusting his legs to keep him upright. The other man pours himself another finger of scotch and swallows it down, eyes fluttering close as he savors the burn. It's one way to replace the taste of come. 

He looks down, then, grimaces at the mess he's made of himself and casts a look at Tony. The faintest furrow on his forehead speaks of uncertainty, for once unsure of how to proceed. Tony knows this is a goodbye–he's overstayed his welcome in more than one way, not to mention he shouldn't have been here in the first place. 

This is a stolen moment. 

Tony feels he should say something; something of significance, something that will simultaneously change everything and nothing (because he needs it to be both, because he always wants more than he can have and loses everything to his greed). 

He wants to say: _There's something you should know about Mom and Howard._

He wants to say: _Bullshitting your way through the nightmares isn't worth it._

He wants to say: _Don't let them go. Whatever happens, you need to be together._

But because everything that's done has already been done and this is only a glimpse into a past that for this man is the present, he simply resorts to a half-smile and taps his chest, allowing the suit to envelop him again. 

Instead, he says, "As enjoyable as this was, believe it or not, I didn't travel through time just to get off with myself." 

"Just?" 

The cocky arch of his brow and corresponding quirk of his lip feel like looking into a mirror and entirely novel all the same, because he wears it in a whole other way, a way that is Tony's but also not. It gives him a ludicrous idea or two, as in, maybe when all this is over and he miraculously hasn't kicked the bucket, he'll come back here another day just to see what other differences he can find. 

Tony forgoes an answer in favor of putting the correct date into the device around his wrist. His younger self is leaning against the wall next to the large shelf stacked with liquor, disheveled, jizz-stained, watching. Painfully nonchalant in a way they've never been on the inside. (There's no need to pretend here, but it's a hard habit to break–took him five decades, after all.)

"Any parting words of wisdom? Not that I'll follow them, but I'd like to know." _...what not to do_ remains unsaid.

It's tempting, of course. The words are right there on the tip of his tongue, waiting to escape. A million _shoulds_ and _what ifs_ beg to be turned into _would_ and _did,_ but Tony knows it isn't his responsibility to point fate in the right direction. 

So what he says, hoping against hope that the real message shines through, is:

"Just keep doing what you're doing." 

The answer gets lost somewhere on the other side of the quantum tunnel.

**Author's Note:**

> please consider leaving a comment on the way out, it's always appreciated!


End file.
